


The Hand That Holds The Knife

by MadameGuillotine



Category: Whitechapel
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameGuillotine/pseuds/MadameGuillotine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandler, Miles and Kent are thrown into confusion and doubt when a mysterious letter arrives at Whitechapel Police Station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hand That Holds The Knife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laridaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laridaes/gifts).



> The only real note is that this story takes place as though the events of Whitechapel II have not occurred. I got the impression that the recipient has not seen the second series yet and didn't want to deliver any spoilers so took the decision not to mention it! Hope that's okay.

DI Chandler stared down at the letter in his hand, put it down on the desk, rubbed his eyes as if trying to make it disappear then picked it up again. His overwhelming feeling was one of dismay, shot through with a ridiculous and childish desire to burst into tears.

‘What’s up with you then?’ As usual, DS Miles had wandered in without knocking and was now standing on the other side of the desk, a concerned look on his tired face. ‘If I didn’t know you better...’

‘It’s nothing.’ Chandler snapped without thinking before wincing and shaking his head. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m just...’ He tossed the letter across the desk, where it landed on top of a neat pile of envelopes and fell to the floor. ‘You’ll see.’

Miles bent down and picked the letter up, wincing as he did so. The wound where he had been stabbed in the liver by the Ripper almost a year earlier still troubled him, although he’d rather have died than admit this to anyone, least of all Chandler. ‘What’s this bollocks then?’ He frowned as he peered down at the letter, struggling to decipher its spidery red writing. ‘Fake blood? Nice touch if a bit melodramatic.’

Chandler coughed into his hand. ‘I... I think it’s real, Ray,’ he murmured, feeling suddenly queasy. Oh God, he’d touched it. He struggled to overcome the sudden desperate need to wash his hands, scrubbing them until they were raw and all the germs had gone.

‘Real blood?’ Miles pulled a face. ‘Waste of time, if you ask me. Why not just use ink. It’s not like anyone really gives a toss, is it?’ He peered again at the letter. ‘Can you make this out?’ he asked eventually. ‘Because I can’t read a bloody word of it.’

Chandler sighed and wearily held out his hand for the letter. ‘It says: Dear Mister Chandler sir, thought you’d seen the last of me? Sorry to disappoint but my work here ain’t done yet. I said I weren’t going to quit until I’d done ripping whores and I still have one bangtail left to do. Yours, Mr Catch Me If You Can.’

Miles was frowning. ‘What does that mean?’ he demanded, running his fingers through his grey hair. ‘I don’t get it, Chandler. Is this some sort of sick joke?’ He took the letter again, smoothing out the crumples with his fingers. ‘We haven’t heard a peep from that bastard all year,’ he said before looking up at his superior. ‘You said that he’d probably killed himself.’

‘And now he’s back,’ Chandler replied. ‘I don’t know if it’s the same guy. It might be another copy cat. It might be a side kick. I just don’t know.’ He ran his hands over his face. ‘But what I do know is that you aren’t getting too attached to that letter as it’s going straight down to forensics.’

Miles sneered. ‘I bet you a tenner that I know what they’ll say about it.’

 

++++

 

Dr Llewellyn smiled regretfully as she handed the letter to Chandler, now safely encased in a floppy plastic bag. ‘I’m sorry...’ she began.

‘But it’s contaminated,’ he finished with a grin and a shrug. ‘I know. I was just being optimistic.’

‘No harm in that,’ she replied with an answering smile. ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more help.’ She looked him up and down brightly. It had been a good day for all the women in the department when tall, immaculately suited and charming DI Joseph Chandler first appeared at Whitechapel Station. ‘So what now?’

He looked momentarily confused. Hadn’t she just been checking him out? ‘Now?’ Oh God, she didn’t expect him to ask her out or anything? Surely she was married anyway? He looked at her left hand - yes, there was definitely a ring and hadn’t she just had a baby? Oh God.

Dr Llewellyn laughed and for a brief, unnerving moment he suspected that she had read his mind. ‘Yes, now. The letter hasn’t given us any clues so what’s the next course of action, Joe? I mean, there hasn’t been a murder yet so your hands are a bit tied in certain respects.’

‘Oh yes, that. The case, yes.’ He sighed with audible relief. ‘I don’t know what to do next but I think I know where to find out.’

 

++++

 

DS Miles hated going to Buchan’s house. Quite apart from his distaste for the man himself, it really offended him for some undefinable reason that Buchan, a man in his late forties still lived with his mother in a pot pourri scented semi detached house in Shadwell. ‘It ain’t right,’ he muttered to Chandler as they waited on the door step for someone to let them in. ‘Why hasn’t he got his own place. The whole thing gives me the creeps.’

Chandler smiled down at him. ‘I know,’ he said, brushing some droplets of rain from the broad shoulders of his long dark wool coat. ‘And so does he.’

Miles shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less what he knows or thinks.’ He would have gone on but at that moment the green painted door opened and they were face to face with Buchan, who was grinning cheerfully at them both.

‘Well, well, well, and to what do I owe this honour?’ he enquired as he led them into the cluttered little sitting room with its clashing brown, blue and yellow floral carpet, curtains and wallpaper. He gestured to the squashy green velour sofa and obediently, Chandler and Miles perched on its edge as their host busied himself opening biscuit tins and fussing with coasters. ‘This isn’t a social call is it?’ he asked with a sly look over his shoulder as he bustled out in search of tea.

‘No, not exactly,’ Chandler called after him, before turning to face a bemused Miles. ‘What?’

‘Not exactly?’ Miles repeated. ‘You sure about that?’

‘I’m just being polite,’ Chandler replied with an exasperated sigh. ‘You should try it sometime.’

‘Nah, I’ll leave any social niceties to you, if that’s okay.’ Miles replied. ‘How long does it take to make tea for God’s sake? In and out again, you said,’ he muttered reproachfully. ‘You didn’t say anything about staying for bloody tea.’

It wasn’t long before Buchan returned bearing a tray, which he placed on the low table in front of them. ‘Now, what can I do for you both?’ he asked as he poured out tea from a plain brown teapot. ‘Can I take it from your somewhat sour expression, DS Miles, that my professional services are required yet again?’ He chuckled a little to himself. ‘Galling isn’t it?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s galling...’ Miles started, always quick to be irritated by Buchan.

Chandler swiftly put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Yes, we do need help as it happens,’ he said smoothly, his eyes fixed directly on Buchan’s. ‘There’s been a letter.’

‘A letter?’ Buchan’s small eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes? What sort of letter?’ He proffered a plate of biscuits to the other two men, who both shook their heads. ‘Oh well.’ He shrugged and helped himself to a custard cream.

Chandler felt in his pocket then produced the plastic wallet containing the letter. ‘This sort of letter,’ he said with a grim smile as he placed it on the table between them.

‘Oh.’ Buchan put down his half eaten custard cream and almost reverently picked up the plastic envelope. ‘I see.’ He lifted it up and scrutinized it from every angle before looking across at Chandler with one eyebrow raised. ‘May I?’ he enquired almost playfully.

‘Do what you like,’ Chandler said, feeling a bit discomforted by Buchan’s almost flirtatious manner. ‘The forensics team can’t get anything from it anyway.’ He sat back and watched as Buchan slowly opened the wallet then slowly slid the letter out, holding it by his fingertips as he read the contents, his lips moving slowly as he did so.

‘Astonishing,’ he remarked when he had finished. ‘Quite remarkable.’

Chandler leaned forward. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, hardly daring to breathe. ‘Is it just some random crazy?’ he said. ‘Should we just ignore it or is it worth taking seriously?’

Buchan stared at him. ‘Oh, definitely take it seriously,’ he replied, sliding the letter back into its wallet. ‘This person clearly has unfinished business,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget that many Ripperologists agree that there were most likely two murderers in the original case.’

‘Or one murderer and an accomplice like a coach driver or something,’ Chandler supplied with a side long look at Miles. ‘So there were probably two of them all along.’ He took the envelope from Buchan and slid it back inside his jacket. ‘Or this could be the same man as last time?’

Buchan shook his head. ‘I have no doubt that he would have taken his own life so as to keep the legend of the unknown killer going,’ he said very definitely. ‘No, this is someone quite different.’ He leaned forward. ‘My money is on a close accomplice who thinks that he should finish the Ripper’s work.’ He sat back in his chair and regarded them both. ‘It’s my guess that he intends to kill Mary Jane Kelly, or at least an approximation of her in the early hours of the 11th November.’

Chandler shivered. ‘But that gives us...’ he looked at Miles, who was suddenly sitting up very straight. ‘My God, that just gives us a day.’

 

++++

 

‘I don’t know where to start,’ Chandler muttered to Miles and DC Kent as they wandered together down the cobbled street of Artillery Lane, leaving behind the sirens and ultra modern architecture of Liverpool Street and entering a whole different world of crowded, gloomy Victorian streets and alleyways. It had taken Chandler a while to get used to this area, to its dark twists and turns, the austere red brick mansions of long dead Spitalfields silk merchants that lined the streets around ominous, Hawksmoor designed Christ Church and the way that the poverty of the council blocks was literally overshadowed by the Gherkin and shiny new buildings of the City.

‘We need to talk to Frances Coles,’ Kent said, pausing to blow into his cupped hands. It was a cold day, even for early November. ‘She was supposed to be the last victim last time around so maybe she’s the target this time too?’

‘Maybe.’ Chandler nodded. He’d already considered this of course but didn’t say so. ‘Get us an address and we’ll go round to see her.’ He cast a sidelong look at Miles, who was silent and radiating grumpiness. ‘What do you think, Ray?’

‘I think I need a drink,’ was the reply.

Chandler and Kent exchanged a wry look, well used by now to Miles’ moods. ‘You’ve still got some contacts among the girls working this area, haven’t you?’ Chandler said with a fastidious shudder. He’d always left that sort of thing to the other men - the way the local prostitutes speculatively looked him over always left him feeling vaguely discomforted for reasons that he had never dared to fathom. ‘You should get the word out that they need to be careful for the next couple of days.’

‘Especially the red haired ones,’ Kent piped up. ‘And tell them to avoid fish and chips too.’

Chandler turned to look at him, a perplexed look on his face. ‘Fish and chips?’

Kent grinned. ‘Don’t you remember, sir? Fish and potatoes! That was Mary Jane’s last meal.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’ Chandler nodded. ‘Poor old Frances Coles got fed fish pie didn’t she?’

‘How very bourgeois,’ Miles said with a scowl. ‘I always said the Ripper was a toff, didn’t I?’ They’d arrived at a pub, the Ten Bells over the road from Spitalfields Market. ‘Here we go,’ Miles said as he held the door open for his companions. ‘Don’t worry, I’m buying.’

Chandler hesitated for a moment, looking back over his shoulder at the looming sooty white tower of Christ Church, which was just across the road and dominated all of the local streets. Not for the first time he wondered why such a grand and imposing church had been built in an area like this. Had Whitechapel always been so poor, he found himself wondering.

It was on the up now though, as evidenced by the crowds of slim hipped young things with angular, shiny hair cuts and carefully distressed and clearly expensive rags who reclined on the battered leather sofas inside. Kent looked immediately at home and sauntered to the bar without a care in the world, followed by Miles who looked around the small pub with a contemptuous expression as he waited for the pretty barmaid, who had long scarlet dreadlocks that swung down to her waist to serve them. Chandler alone seemed to feel ill at ease and fiddled with his car keys in his coat pocket as he looked nervously around.

‘This used to be a nice place,’ Miles said. ‘I used to come here as a kid for a pint with the traders from the market across the road. It’s changed a lot since then.’

‘I can imagine.’ Chandler turned to his colleague. ‘The whole area seems to be changing.’

Miles shrugged. ‘In some ways.’ He pointed to the glass doors, beyond which they could see busy Commercial Street. ‘Some of the houses on this street go for millions,’ he said. ‘The new owners have a bit of bee in their bonnets about retaining the original features of the area so they go without electricity at night and only use candles and stuff. It’s bloody stupid.’

Chandler nodded, accepting the half pint of bitter that was being handed to him by the barmaid. ‘And only a few doors away there’s an estate where the families can’t afford to pay their electricity bills,’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ Miles said, sipping his pint. He looked to the door. ‘Oh, here we go.’

Chandler followed his gaze and slumped a little. Buchan. ‘Did you know he was going to come here?’ he asked.

‘Do you think we’d be here if I’d known that?’ Miles replied with an impatient look.

Buchan appeared not to notice that his appearance was unwelcome and bustled towards them, his round face slightly pink thanks to the cold winds outside. ‘How nice to see you all again!’ he exclaimed. Chandler winced away, thinking for one awful minute that Buchan was going to hug him, so delighted did he appear to be to see him.

‘It’s fortuitous indeed to meet you in here,’ he said in his half flirtatious, half chiding manner that drove Miles half mad with irritation. ‘This was, after all, the favoured drinking place of the original Ripper’s last known victim, Mary Jane Kelly.’ He gestured to the ornate tile decoration on the back wall, which Chandler had hitherto failed to notice. ‘That would have been here when she was a regular. Imagine that.’

‘So you’re back to the line that Kelly was the last one then?’ Miles interrupted with a sour look. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind about that?’

Now it was Buchan’s turn to look impatient. ‘That was just a ploy,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I thought that if I could just convince the murderer that the killings ended with Catherine Eddowes then I might be able to spare some unfortunate young woman’s life.’

‘Didn’t work though, did it?’ Kent interposed. He’d been silent up until that moment, regarding Buchan with amusement from a safe vantage point behind Chandler’s elbow. ‘He still went for that midwife, didn’t he?’

‘Frances Coles, yes,’ Buchan seemed to meditate for a moment. ‘I wonder what became of her?’

 

++++

 

The last time Chandler had seen Frances Coles, she’d been pale and trembling, wrapped in a heavy duty grey blanket and drinking sweet tea while hesitantly describing what had happened when she’d had to fight for her life against the Ripper. He still remembered the way that her auburn hair had fallen over her face, momentarily hiding the purple and blue bruises that covered her neck where he’d tried to strangle her, the burst blood vessels around her eyes.

‘I look a right mess,’ she’d said at the time with a shaky laugh. ‘Still, could have been worse.’

Miles, sensitive as ever, had shown her a picture of Mary Jane Kelly and the girl had turned green and pushed it roughly away. ‘Is that what he wanted to do to me?’ she’d said after a moment, breathlessly as though all the life had been knocked out of her. ‘My God.’

Now though, things were different and he had trouble recognizing the healthy, black haired girl who answered the door to them. ‘DI Chandler,’ she said blankly, looking him over. ‘Nice to see you again.’ Her tone was casual but her eyes darted between the three men in panic. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Can we come in?’ Chandler’s manner was gentle. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

Frances held the door open for them and they filed silently into her flat. Chandler admired the brightly coloured turquoise, hot pink and yellow walls, the mixture of Pre-Raphaelite and Klimt prints, the large book collection. It was colourful but also bohemian in a way that he himself was too cautious to emulate.

‘Nice place,’ Miles remarked as he sat without invitation on the large orange velvet sofa. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘A couple of months.’ Frances sank down on a fuchsia pink cord armchair and regarded the three policemen calmly. She thought that they couldn’t see the way that her hands trembled in her lap, but Kent at least noticed and was on his guard, determined to interrupt or deflect anything upsetting that the others might say.

‘I’m sorry,’ Chandler began, putting his hand into his pocket to pull out the letter, but then clearly thinking better of this plan because he brought his hand out again. ‘We have had a letter from someone claiming to be planning to finish the Ripper’s work.’

Frances opened her eyes more widely. She’d been expecting this of course. ‘It’ll be a year tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘Is that how long you’ve got? One night?’

Chandler nodded. ‘We don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It could be nothing. It could just be a random mad person, but we have to take it seriously. After last time...’

‘After last time...’ Frances echoed. Three women dead, killed in the most grotesque ways and left on the street for them to find. Three women, almost four. ‘Of course.’ Her voice sounded shaky. ‘And you think he might be coming after me again?’

Miles took over. ‘We’re pretty sure that the killer, whoever he was, committed suicide a year ago. We found a body that matched his profile but it had been in the water for so long that we couldn’t be totally sure that it was him.’

She nodded. ‘I see.’

Kent cleared his throat. ‘Has anything unusual happened recently?’ he asked. ‘Any letters? Phone calls? Strangers hanging about?’

Frances considered this for a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I want to be helpful but there is really nothing to say.’ She looked at each man in turn. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s me this time.’

 

++++

 

‘I’ve drafted in extra men for tonight,’ Chandler said to Kent as they strolled along Commercial Street the next afternoon. ‘I’ve also posted a couple opposite Frances Coles’ flat. I hope she’s right, but you never know, she might have missed something.’

‘Or our man is being extra cunning this time,’ Kent supplied, thinking about Coles and how fragile she had seemed. ‘Do you think she’ll ever get over it, sir?’

Chandler looked at him in surprise then shook his head. ‘How can you get over something like that?’

The two men crossed the road outside the Ten Bells and walked past Spitalfields Market, once so rough and ready and now home to gourmet chocolate shops, expensive kitchen knick knacks and cutting edge fashion. Music pounded through the air, following them as they took a left by the market, edging past a barrier and then wandering down a miserable, dark service road, edged on one side by storage units and on the other by an ugly concrete multi storey car park.

Chandler shivered as he paused at a nondescript spot about half way down the road. ‘It was here,’ he said in a low voice that Kent had to strain to hear. ‘Mary Jane Kelly’s room was here.’ He pointed to a dip in the pavement on the right hand side. ‘It was all destroyed after the war. There is nothing left of the street that she lived on or the room that she died in.’

Kent looked down at the pavement. ‘So that’s all that’s left?’ He thought of the photograph of Mary Jane that they’d shown Frances Coles and shuddered. ‘This is where it happened?’ He looked up and down the road. At the top end you could see the traffic going past on Commercial Street, while at the other there was an imposing red brick Victorian building.

‘That’s Providence Row. It used to be a night shelter,’ Chandler said, pre-empting his next question. ‘It was run by nuns. Apparently Mary Jane Kelly stayed there when she first came to London. It’s a hall of residence for students now.’

 

++++

 

Night came all too quickly. The extra policemen wandered through the crowds, their eyes darting down the alleyways, constantly on the look out for something unusual, a struggle, the sound of a scream.

‘It won’t happen until the early hours of the morning,’ Chandler told his team as he quickly debriefed them before they all went out onto the streets. ‘We have men posted opposite the entrance to Frances Coles’ flat although there’s no reason to think that she is the intended victim this time.’

‘If there is a victim,’ Miles interposed gruffly. ‘Personally, I’m just hoping that the letter turns out to be another stupid hoax.’

Chandler turned to him and nodded. ‘We all hope that it’s a hoax. Of course we do, but we need to be vigilant all the same.’ He went to his desk and picked up a pile of photocopied lilac papers. ‘Fact files about Mary Jane Kelly, the last victim of the Ripper. There isn’t much to go on as no one is even really sure that that was her real name, however I’ve pulled together everything available.’ He handed one to each man. ‘Read this before you leave and refer to it often. If the killer is a Jack the Ripper fanatic then there’s every chance that this is all he has to go on as well so it may be that the clue to his next victim’s identity is in these pages.’

The men sighed and rolled their eyes in a well rehearsed chorus of forced annoyance. As usual, Miles was the most vocal of all and made a great show of chucking his notes into the bin while the others applauded.

‘Did you really have to do that,’ Chandler whispered to him. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit childish when there might be a life at stake.’

Miles paused for a moment and looked at the other man. He opened his mouth as though about to say something but then clearly thought better of it as he turned away without a word, pulled his sheaf of notes from the bin and stalked off.

Chandler watched him go then turned to Kent, who was standing at his elbow. ‘Some things never change,’ he remarked with a sigh.

‘He’ll come round,’ Kent replied with a laugh. ‘He always does in the end.’

They smiled at each other. ‘Come on then, let’s go,’ Chandler said after a moment. ‘I’m dreading this to be honest.’ He ran his fingers nervously through his fair hair. ‘I really hope this turns out to be a hoax. I don’t care if I look ridiculous.’ He looked at Kent and shrugged. ‘I’d rather look stupid than have to see...’

Kent nodded and put his hand on Chandler’s arm. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘It won’t happen, Joe. We’ll get him, you’ll see. We’ve got a good team here.’

Chandler smiled again. ‘I know.’

 

++++

 

It was almost midnight. Chandler, Miles and Kent were tired, dejected but grimly determined to see this night to its conclusion, whatever that would involve. Miles hoped that it would end with him in his own bed and Chandler with egg on his face for taking the ramblings of some random nutter seriously. Kent, however, quite fancied a bit of excitement and was on tenterhooks, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

Chandler kept his thoughts to himself and stood a little apart, arms folded across his chest as he scanned the street, on the look out for the slightest sign of trouble. He knew that Miles was hoping to see him proved wrong - they were friends and loyal to each other as colleagues, but all the same, he was well aware that he got on Miles’ nerves at times and that he’d like nothing better than to see him brought down a peg or two.

‘What time is it?’ Kent asked, breaking into his thoughts about that night a year earlier when he’d had the Ripper in his grasp but had let him go so that he could help Miles, probably saving his life in the process. The two men rarely mentioned what happened any more but still it hung between them, drawing them close and at the same time holding them apart.

Miles checked his watch. ‘Quarter past midnight,’ he said gruffly. ‘We need to get a move on.’

Chandler brought out his neatly folded notes. ‘There’s got to be something in here,’ he said. ‘We must have missed a clue.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Miles said with a shrug, pushing himself away from the wall that he was leaning against. ‘I’m off to get a curry. Anyone fancy anything?’

‘We’re on duty,’ Chandler reminded him. ‘You don’t need to pretend that you don’t care around me any more,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I know you think this is stupid but we have to take it seriously.’ He unfolded his notes. ‘Right, let’s start at the beginning.’

Kent was way ahead of him. ‘It says here that Mary Jane used to drink at the Ten Bells, you know, that pub we went to the other day.’ He looked from Chandler to Miles. ‘Well, it’s a start isn’t it?’

Chandler was frowning, something nagged at his memory, something crucial. ‘The girl,’ he said. ‘In the pub. She had red hair, do you remember?’ He looked at Miles. ‘Okay, it’s a long shot but it’s better than doing nothing.’

They hurried down the street to the Ten Bells, which was still open and packed full of punters - an awkward mix of market traders, drunk suits from the nearby City offices, cool haired young things and a few bewildered tourists, who’d lingered after the end of a Jack the Ripper walking tour. Chandler shoved through them all, Kent close behind him, until he finally reached the bar.

‘What can I do for you, mate?’ the bar man was young, wiry and very good looking.

Chandler looked up and down the small bar but couldn’t see the bar maid from the day before. ‘There was a girl working here yesterday afternoon,’ he shouted over the music. ‘She was pretty and had long red hair in dreadlocks. Do you know who I mean?’

The barman nodded and grinned. ‘Yeah, mate, you mean Eliza.’

‘Is she working tonight?’ Chandler asked, suddenly feeling impatient. Why was this youth grinning at him? Couldn’t he tell how urgent this was? ‘Do you know where she is?’

The boy looked uncertain now. ‘Er, I don’t know if...’ His eyes shifted from side to side as he debated what to say next.

Immediately, Miles’ arm was shooting over Chandler’s shoulder and he’d slapped his warrant badge on the bar. ‘CID,’ he said. ‘Now where is she?’

 

++++

 

The three of them hurried down the service road at the side of Spitalfields Market, where Mary Jane Kelly had once lived. The darkness was oppressive here without any streetlights to dissipate the gloom and Chandler looked over his shoulder nervously, half expecting to see a cloaked figure surrounded by swirling fog, the one that had haunted his nightmares for over a year now.

‘Her name is Eliza Chapman,’ Kent was speaking into his radio. ‘She’s a student but works part time at the Ten Bells. She lives on Artillery Lane. We’re on our way there now.’

Chandler pointed ahead at the Providence Row building, once a night shelter but now a hall of residence. ‘I bet she lived there first,’ he said with a nod. ‘When she first came to London.’

‘Just like Mary Jane,’ Kent murmured before he too looked anxiously back over his shoulder, peering uncertainly through the darkness.

It didn’t take them long to reach Artillery Lane, a narrow alley that hadn’t changed much since Victorian times and still had original gas lamps lighting the way. It was easy to imagine the Ripper coming this way - both the original and his modern counterpart.

‘Right, she lives in a flat in this house,’ Chandler stopped in front of a red varnished door and peered at the list of names next to a short row of buzzers. ‘Chapman, Chapman,’ he murmured. ‘Christ, she’s not here.’

‘Ring all of them,’ Miles barked. ‘It’s not like they’re going to complain is it?’ Seeing Chandler hesitate, he stepped forward and mashed all of the buzzers down with his fist. ‘That’s how you do it,’ he muttered with a wry smile.

It didn’t take long before there was a fuzzing sound and a disembodied voice drifted out. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

Chandler leaned forward, polite as ever. ‘Hello, sorry to bother you. We’re looking for Eliza Chapman? It’s important. Don’t...’ they hung up, ‘hang up. Don’t hang up. Damn.’

Miles rolled his eyes then pressed the buzzer again, holding his finger down until the knuckle went white. ‘What do you want?’ the voice was annoyed now. ‘Look, stop messing around or I’ll...’

‘Call the police will you? Well then, it’s your lucky day isn’t it?’ Miles grinned at Chandler. ‘Now, well ask you again: know anything about Eliza Chapman? Pretty girl with red hair?’

There was a pause and then a sigh. ‘Number four,’ the voice said. ‘I’ll just buzz you in shall I?’

They pushed through the door then ran up the threadbare carpeted stairs to the third floor, where Eliza Chapman’s flat was. Her door was shut, as they had expected but there was something about the sight of that closed door, about the silence that made Chandler’s heart leap into his mouth. ‘We’re too late,’ he said.

‘Don’t say that,’ Kent interjected. ‘Let’s just get this door open.’ He heaved at it with his shoulder but it didn’t so much as budge. ‘I think we’re all going to have to work together,’ he said ruefully, rubbing his arm.

The three men pushed against the door until finally it fell open. Chandler was first into the flat and found himself in darkness, groping around blindly in a tiny hallway. He ran his hands down the walls in search of a light switch. ‘I can’t see,’ he muttered over his shoulder to the others. Finally, he found a door handle in the wall opposite and turned it, taking a deep breath as he did so as he had no idea what he would find on the other side. ‘Just let her be alive,’ he silently prayed. ‘Please God.’

The sitting room was gloom, with only a tall paper lamp in the shape of a caterpillar pupae left on. Eliza Chapman had affected a pink bulb so the room was suffused with a soft rosy glow that made Chandler think of strip clubs, bordellos and Hell itself. Possibly that was the effect Eliza was going for though. She’d seemed the sort from what little he could remember about her.

‘Eliza Chapman?’ The flat was silent. ‘Are you here, Eliza? It’s the police! No need to be alarmed!’ He stumbled around, almost tripping over a pair of battered discarded army boots and a low coffee table covered in books and magazines. ‘Eliza?’ The air smelled of bubble gum and joss sticks, a sickly sweet, heady scent that was rapidly beginning to make his head ache.

There was a muffled sound from behind a door on the left. ‘Eliza?’ Without hesitation this time, he pushed the door open and then recoiled. ‘You?’

 

++++

 

Chandler and Buchan stared at each other for what seemed like a long time but was in actuality only a few seconds. ‘You?’ Chandler repeated stupidly, his brain failing to comprehend what he was seeing.

‘Yes, me.’ Buchan had been kneeling over the girl, who was lying on the bed with her head turned slightly to the side, her face away from Chandler so that he couldn’t see it, but now he straightened up, his eyes sliding away, a weird smile on his round face. ‘It was always me.’

Chandler took a step forward to get to Eliza then stopped when he noticed the long shiny blade in Buchan’s hand. ‘I don’t understand.’ He looked past Buchan at the girl, her crimson hair hanging almost to the floor. ‘Is she still alive?’ he asked. ‘For God’s sake, Edward, tell me that you haven’t done anything to her!’

Buchan shrugged. ‘What do you think?’ He looked at Chandler then, his small eyes slightly too bright. ‘It hardly matters any more does it? You’ve interrupted my grand plan.’

Chandler ran his fingers through his hair. He could hear Miles and Kent crashing around in the sitting room and knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep them out of the bedroom for much longer. ‘Look,’ he started but then ground to a halt as he didn’t know what to say. ‘Edward, why did you do it?’ Miles had clearly tripped over the boots because there was a torrent of swearing from the other room. Any second now he was going to walk in.

Buchan looked away. ‘I wanted to know what it was like,’ he said. ‘I wanted to know what it would be like to be the one holding the knife.’ He wiped his forehead with his hand then sank down on the edge of the bed, the knife held limply at his side.

‘Oh my God.’ Miles was at door. ‘I might have bloody known.’ He pushed past Chandler and went to the bed, ignoring Buchan and his knife. He pressed his fingers to her neck, his expression more concerned and troubled than Chandler had ever before seen it. ‘Call for an ambulance!’ he shouted over his shoulder at Kent before looking at Chandler. ‘She’s alive. He’s tried to strangle her and she’s passed out for now, but no serious harm done.’

‘Oh thank God.’ Chandler relaxed.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ Buchan muttered. ‘I wanted to know what must have gone through his mind, I wanted to be the one to have the great revelation about who the Ripper must have been but when it came to it, I was just a miserable coward after all.’

Miles turned on him. ‘You think the Ripper was some sort of courageous hero do you? A man who attacked helpless women?’ He looked like he was going to hit Buchan and Chandler immediately sprang forward to prevent him. ‘Don’t bother, Joe. I’m not about to waste my time on a pathetic maggot like him.’ He lifted Eliza up as she came to, coughing and sobbing. ‘Luckily for us you couldn’t even strangle her properly,’ he remarked with a sneer.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what goes in this section as it's the first time that I have attempted Yuletide, however I just wanted to say hello and that I hope you enjoy the story! This is my first attempt at writing fan fiction and I really, really enjoyed it as I adore Whitechapel (if you check out my blog, you'll see that I was even invited to the premiere of the second series!) and am also a Ripperologist so I know the Ripper case and Whitechapel area very well. I was really thrilled that the recipient specified that they wanted a bit of a mini tour of the area!


End file.
